


Flames they Licked the Walls (tenderly they turned to dust, all that I adored)

by Anastasia_Fry27



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Angst, Brothers, Canon Compliant, DreamSMP - Freeform, Found Family, Founding of L'Manberg | L'Manburg on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Gen, POV Second Person, POV: L'mantree, YOU are L'mantree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 22:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30045609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anastasia_Fry27/pseuds/Anastasia_Fry27
Summary: You've watched L'manberg grow, and now you've watched it die.You're time has come now too, as Niki stands before you with flint and steel, her eyes cold.or,L'mantree has been in the forest since before Wilbur joined the server, it's watched L'manberg form as a drug van and watched it recruit soldiers, win wars and become independent. Now, as it's founder is dead and L'manberg is a crater, L'mantree is set alight, and burns at the hands of Niki.------Second person POV you are L'mantree :)
Relationships: Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Stop using real names it's cringe, Tommyinnit & Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Flames they Licked the Walls (tenderly they turned to dust, all that I adored)

_ How sweet it is in solitude to be, _

_ A little while away from worldly care, _

_ Reclining calmly 'neath the spreading tree _

_ Where odors sweet are wafted on the air. _

_ Now gentle breezes fan the glowing cheek, _

_ And stir the leaves that rustle audibly, _

_ The softly swaying branches seem to speak: _

_ "Here I will ever rest and shelter thee. _

_ No sound is heard save the low, babbling brook, _

_ The cricket's chirp, the song of whip-poorwill. _

_ Within this beauteous, sequestered nook, _

_ Where life is sweetest, let me linger still; _

_ Where Nature and the soul can be in tune, _

_ The creature and Creator still commune. _

\- Beneath The Oak (By Rose Maxim)

* * *

Wind rushes through the forest, rustling the green leaves basking in the summer sun. The forest is quiet, no animals wander this close to the loud shouts of the human players that lie over the tall hills. You rest in silence, just as you have for all of your days, here among your brethren.

The silence is interrupted by soft footsteps in the grass -- an uncommon occurrence only because of the quiet curiosity in the man's eyes, instead of whoops and hollers of joy and laughter that echo through these trees.

A man in a black jacket stands on a hill, overlooking the bend in the river and the small clearing of trees beside it. The forest hushes in his presence. He tilts his head to the side, letting out a quiet hum, brown curls shifted on his forehead. 

Then the man smiles, a small, toothless thing, and nods to himself before turning away.

He leaves, just as all the rest of the human players have, to return to his home and allow the forest to resume it’s peaceful cadence without interruption.

The sun shines bright in the sky, the day is warm, and you are safe.

* * *

Except, he returns -- the man does, two days later, in fact.

He returns to the hill he stood upon before, this time he seems a bit lighter, resting a palm on a tree beside him as his brows furrow in determination. You watch as he meanders down the hill to its base, leaping across the river in a swift stride. He stumbles, letting out a small laugh that permeates the clearing, relaxing you. It feels as if it’s a silent invitation to watch, and you do. There is nothing else for you to do but enjoy your warm contentedness of existence, but the monotony has been disturbed and your interest is piqued. 

He pulls a small book from his pocket, and surveys the land. The man spends to day clearing dirt from a small mound beside the river bed, gathering it up and setting it aside in his inventory for later use, you suppose. His hands dig into the dirt unaided by even a shovel, and you are captivated by it. The human players are always with tools, or at least glowing armor, and always destroying trees, slaughtering animals, and filling the forest with screaming laughter.

The man simply kneels in the dirt and moves it with his hands, and he is silent but for a quiet tune he hums as he works.

You’ve been here a very, very long time, and here you will remain.

You think you don’t mind if this one man stays too.

* * *

The next day, he arrives at sunrise and approaches you with a tired look in his eyes, there’s a nick on his arm and you find yourself wishing you were a tree that bore fruit to rejuvenate his health, but you are not. You are an old oak who stands tall among this forest, and you can only offer your wood that you are not ready to give.

The man settles against your trunk, pulling a small book from his black coats pocket, and flips it open. You at least offer him some solace in the form of a backrest, and you are content in knowing that you have done at least that for the quiet man with a kind smile.

He reads until the sun sets upon the lush forest and gentle winds blow through your leaves, letting the forest sing as one as leaves vibrate and flutter. His chest rises and falls gentle, and you remain tall and strong. There is not much you can do for him, but no mob wanders within fifty blocks of him that night.

The next morning when he awakens, he opens his book and reads under the warm sunlight again, this time curled against your bark and scribbling into a small notepad that lay in his lap. 

This cycle continues for two days more, before the man stands and leaves, resting a hand against your bark and giving a small smile as farewell.

It does not feel like a goodbye, and you are content with the knowledge he may return.

* * *

The following days are filled with him constructing a small building, although he proclaims to the silent forest that it’s a caravan, that it’ll solve all his and the servers problems once he gets it working.

He works on it day after day, tirelessly, only leaving to gather materials he adds eagerly to his creation. When he is done, he steps back and admires the white van he has built, and he disappears inside to fix the windows into place and install doors and shelves and to revel in his creation. 

In the end he does not get the van to start up, his creation is condoned to this clearing and cursed to never move from it;s spot of origin, but the man does not let it cause a falter in his step. His creation has just been born and has already been cursed with immobility and yet he is content and blind in his high of creation.

Perhaps that should have clued you into his coming madness sooner. 

* * *

A few days later, the man returns to the clearing, this time with a young boy with a head of bright blond hair beside him. The boy shouts, calling the man Wilbur, asking why a drug van sits in your clearing.

Wilbur smiles and guides him closer, then inside, laughing at the boys shouting and begins planning his monopoly.

* * *

Tommy and Wilbur break through the trees behind you and Tommy almost falls to the ground in their haste to reach the caravan. The button to open the door is punched and they scramble inside. Not even a few moments later, two men -- no a man and a  _ boy _ break through the trees and stumble at the sight of the caravan, shouting their confusion. 

Wilbur and the man with a white bandana, the man with  _ glowing armour _ , shout at each other, Wilbur and Tommy attempt to run until Tommy is dragged away back to the lands of the SMP, out of your sight. 

The day ends with an orange fox emerging from the caravan, you see Wilbur and Tommy watching from the window as the fox puffs out his chest and shouts a swear at the man. Laughter echoes out from the caravan and despite the worry of a fight, the clearing feels warm.

* * *

There used to be no animals in your forest, the only living things being you, your fellow oaks, green grass and occasional patches of flowers. Slowly, as the human players proclaim that no armour is to be worn within the yellow and black walls that now surround you and the river bend, salmons begin to fill the water of the river, and you hear the distant clucking of chickens.

The forest begins to welcome life back into it.

* * *

Wilbur sits in your branches, sketching on a piece of paper lit with the midday sun. You think he’s sketching clothing, and he’s writing a list of things to gather, sheers hanging off his belt and small white bandages are wrapped around his fingers.

He rests for a few minutes, setting his pencil down and leaving his notebook by your roots as he wanders toward the river. Salmon swim leisurely in the cool water, jumping to and fro in the summer sun. He settles in the grass and watches them move. His back is to you but his posture is relaxed.

A while later, a girl with bright orange hair and patches of fur across her skin appears at the wall across the river, and Wilbur is the only soul in L’manberg to hear her utter the hesitant words of kinship. The rest of the residents are away gathering materials, and will be absent for the next few weeks. You watch as he moves to greet her, quiet chatter filling the clearing. 

You are also the only one to witness a hesitant confession on a quiet night, only lit by a blazing campfire, that he has not a daughter but a son. The flow of the river is the only sound for a moment, before Wilbur wraps her in a hug and asks for a name.

Fundy joins L’manberg that day, and you feel content to watch him grow.

* * *

Tubbo, a short boy with brown hair stands beside Tommy, both having pulled on freshly sown uniforms that are too loose around the shoulders, the pant legs having to be rolled up and excess fabric tucked into brown boots. Their posture is relaxed as they lean against the caravan, and they seem to buzz with excitement, exchanging words you cannot hear. 

Wilbur emerges from the caravan a few moments later, uniform uncreased and eyes glowing with a spark of determination. Fundy rounds the corner, his uniform a lighter blue than the rest, and Tommy whoops, shouting about how cool they look. Wilbur beckons them to enter the caravan with him again and they follow eagerly.

* * *

Your clearing that has buildings spotted around it is wrecked with bombs, bombs you watched and felt be placed but could not do anything. You watched as Wilbur entered with his men behind him and you wish to cry out in agony as you cannot warn them of the danger lurking below their fear. You wish to cry out in agony as your brethren are set alight by the explosions and your human players are sent running to the water for safety. 

L’manberg sits in ruins, but Eret leads them to the underground bunker you felt him carve, you feel as he leads them down into the earth, you feel figures enter the tunnels he carved and you wish to sob as you feel only four figures leave. Only one of them is one of you human players.

Your human players respawn but there is something broken in the children's eyes, and there is a new tense and glint in Wilburs eyes that does not leave. 

They do not wander towards your roots often anymore, the hill you are on sits above the Final Control Room and you silently lament at the loss and betrayal.

* * *

A woman arrives one day, and a man follows a few days later. Wilbur shows the woman around their walls after she tugs on a uniform. Niki is proclaimed to be the first lady to the President Soot and laughter rings across the nation. You watch as they have a quick mock trial after a stray arrow nicks Niki’s shoulder and Wilbur jumps to her defense.

Niki joins your group of human players and you watch as she builds a bakery, distributing baked goods to her allies and decorates the nation.

She rests against your trunk as she slowly sews the first flag of L’manberg. A sketch from Wilbur with notes from Fundy scribbled in the corner rests in the grass beside her as she works. Niki hums as she stitches the crosses onto the cloth.

The nation is alight with joy when she holds it proudly in front of her friends, all expressing their adoration of it. Tommy runs his fingers across the stitches and Tubbo shouts that they’ll all need patches sewn over their hearts so their uniforms bear the flag too.

* * *

The days are filled with ringing laughter under the warm sun and faux-anger ending in piles of tangled limbs and aching ribs; Eyes full of mirth.

Niki often sits against your trunk, resting in the sun, while Tommy and Wilbur shout from your branches as Tubbo spins around searching for the source of their voices. Fundy and Jack sit beside the bend in the river watching the salmon jump, shrinking back from the cool water that splash against their uniforms with proclamations of annoyance that bears no venom. 

At night, they sit around a strong bonfire and hum melodies out of tune but never cease. Wilbur strums a guitar and sings their anthem, and as days pass the chorus of voices joining in grows stronger and louder, confidence growing until NIki pulls Fundy and Tubbo up to dance as they sing. Laughter rings out because of clumsy feet but the dancing continues as it grows less chaotic. 

The cheer is merry and never ceasing under the summer sun, and you watch your human players grow together.

* * *

Wilbur decides to hold a rigged election in order to consolidate power, he recruits Tommy as his Vice President. Quackity, a man you haven’t seen much of before challenges them calling them out on the unfairness of the closed ballot.

Something shifts in L’manberg that night, you aren’t sure what, but as the forest shifts with the season into fall, something seems to change. 

* * *

Schlatt is announced to be the winner, and the forest hushes into silence. WIlbur and Tommy are sent fleeing the country, the nation, they built from nothing. You wish to weep as Wilbur is shot and falls to the ground, Tommy shouting as his body disappears. Tommy turns and flees into the woods, leaving you and L’manberg behind.

\------------------------

You feel them leave the forest, too deep beneath the ground for you to feel and too far from you to watch. You mourn the loss of them as they approach the surface less and less over the coming weeks, and each time they break the surface of their shelter less and less of them emerges. The cave they call home,  _ Pogtopia _ , is stealing parts of them from you, and you want to scream in grief and rage at the loss.

But trees do not have mouths from which to scream, and they do not have hearts from which to bleed. 

* * *

It feels too much like a goodbye, his chestnut brown eyes too dark with sorrow, your roots and trunk have not been a resting place for him for far too long, you know this.

Before the bombs ignite and you feel his prideful yells to a man you’ve never seen but feel as if you know all too well, you are the first to mourn L’manberg. It has not been the same since they forced Wilbur to run so far from the home you’ve watched be born and grow. Since Tommy’s shouts stopped filling the forest at all.

You feel him leave, as if he has sucked all the air from the country with his final departure; Your branches sink. He dies in the arms of his father, surrounded by people he once held dear, but he dies alone.

* * *

Tubbo is too numb and quiet to be the same child you watched spin, looking for his commander before falling into fits of giggles at his own silly actions.

Fundy has stood too close to you, burned down a flag representing L’manberg and erected an obsidian mockery in its place, he is no longer the child you watched grow overnight under his fathers care.

Tommy had screamed and pleaded for mercy from a man he considered a hero, his idol, his own uniform retired and forgotten, his general,  his brother gone.

Wilbur is dead, his quickly cooling corpse burned and bloodied, ran through with a sword by the one man he trusted to end his madness. He is no longer the proud general of an army searching for succession and freedom.

Eret sits on a throne with a gilded crown that places a weight too heavy to bear upon his shoulders, he no longer resides in a small shack, he no longer builds tall strong walls to protect his friends.

Jack rarely visits, his determination to prove himself gone and he seems to be forgotten. 

Niki,  _ oh Niki _ , she has been bled dry, given hope only to be forgotten in a country that stole from her and belittled her work. A country that spoke over her and erased her voice, that burned her flag and beat her down.

Niki stands beside you with flint in one hand and a small bar of steel digging into her other palm. You know what she is here to do, and there is nothing you can do to prevent it. There is nothing you want to do to prevent it. You only wish you had real arms to embrace her in, a heartbeat for her to listen to and a mouth to reassure her that it is alright, that you are thankful she will put you to rest alongside the country you watched over and the leader you watched break.

She moves closer, and strikes one, two, three flames, and steps back, remaining silent.

It is so very warm, your leaves are falling like winter but it isn’t cold at all, or perhaps you have grown accustomed to the chill of abandonment. 

The others, people who consider Niki a friend but leave her in a heartbeat chatter in L’manberg, as always, oblivious to the woman’s turmoil and actions.

You burn brightly, and for a long time. Niki stands beside you through almost all of it, saluting you. No, not you, you think, L’manberg, Wilbur, her old family, the bonds they shared, the memories they made, the hardships they endured and survives, the bloodshed. All for waste. She salutes it all in that moment, and you wish for what feels like the millionth time you had arms to replicate it.

Instead, you burn.

Your last act before you are reduced to ashes in the wind, is to provide the woman with warmth, a pitiful ghost of the warmth that used to fill the spirits of L’manberg.

In your final moments, you burn alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea at one AM and typed most of it out of order without moving my eyes from the tab name I'm surprised there weren't more typos when I read it over lol. Legit didn't even read what I was typing just clocked out for an hour.   
> Edit: WHY DO I ONLY NOTICE TYPOS AFTER I POST AND WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS IN THE GODDAMN SUMMARY i cri  
> Hope you enjoyed! Kudos and Comments are adored!


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